CHAPTER LIII.
COMING HOME FROM CALIFORNIA.
A steamer had just arrived, bringing passengers from the gold regions of California,—a rough, wild-looking set, whose half-savage aspect gave the impression of a gang of returned convicts, rather than of refined and enterprising men, as most of them undoubtedly were. To have seen the coaches and hacks as they gave up their burdens at the various hotels, one would have fancied that the inhabitants of Van Diemen’s land had escaped in battalions, and were about to overrun the country.
One of these carriages drew up at the Astor House, and a young man sprang out, carrying a portmanteau, which seemed of considerable weight, in his hand. His appearance was rather picturesque than otherwise, for he was one of these persons whom no disarray of costume could render less than gentlemanly. In fact, a black wide-awake, set carelessly a little on one side of his head, was the most becoming thing in the world, and a Mexican blanket, bought from a fellow-passenger and flung over his arm, gave a brilliant contrast to his gray and travel-soiled clothes. A flowing beard, which no neglect could prevent from rippling downward in rich waves, veiled the lower portion of his face, revealing a finely curved mouth and a set of snowy teeth when he spoke or smiled. A noble and frank face it was, which looked so eagerly from beneath the hat we have mentioned.
The young man went directly to the office, registered his name, and inquired, in an anxious voice, if Louis De Marke had left an address there.
“Louis De Marke,” was the reply, “is an inmate of the house. He has been in town some months, and is probably in his room, No. ——.”
The young man’s face lighted up. He flung down the pen with which he had just written “George De Marke,” and taking up his portmanteau, followed the waiter, who stood ready to guide him through the intricacies of the establishment.
“Never mind. This is the room, you need not announce me,” exclaimed De Marke, as the waiter paused before a chamber-door.
The waiter disappeared; the door was opened hurriedly, and the quick exclamations, “Louis,” “George,” “brother,” were followed by a warm embrace and an eager clasping of hands.
Never perhaps has it happened, that two men, not twins, bore so close a resemblance to each other, as the persons who stood in that chamber, with their hands interlocked and their eyes sparkling with affectionate welcome. There was scarcely the fraction of an inch by which you could distinguish them in height or size. The same open, frank expression of face was there; the form and color of the eyes were alike; indeed, save for the more neatly trimmed beard and perfect toilet of the one, you could not have known the brothers apart. Even in manner they were the same, for the careless but not ungraceful air which one brother had brought from his wild life in the gold regions, met its counterpart at once. The very smile and laugh of one had the sunshine and heart-warm richness of the other.
The new-comer was perhaps some four years older than the other, but this was only detected by close examination.